I am trying really hard to not always write about the negative. It comes out so dramatic and unfailingly stupid. Except, it’s really hard to write about anything else when the sole purpose of the write is the rant. The negative is what got me here in the first place. Back in the day I would crawl around the rooms in my mind and pick out the crap that bugged me the lost. Writing was like opening a window and chucking the worst offenders out. While most of the stuff found a way to crawl back in, some of it was banished forever. If only one out of twenty crapoids disappears for good then mission accomplished I say.
Here’s the reality of my existence: I am dramatic. I am sensitive to the world around me and hypersensitive to how it treats me. When my mother tells me I’m not ready to handle a house (and maybe should get a condo instead) it hurts my feelings. How much of a failure after 40 can I feel? A lot. When people joke that my near-two nephew “didn’t kill me” I get nasty. It’s almost like these people still see me as 16 or something. I tend to shut down and shut out. Okay, so I won’t share the house-hunting antics with those who naysay. So, I won’t mention how my nephew made my heart fall out when he balanced himself on the edge of a 15 foot drop.
So. Those are my negative notions – the things I need to toss out of the attic. Will they find an open window in the basement? How soon will they crawl back into my head? I don’t know. Guess it’s up to me to secure the house. For now, I have. This time.
I am all messed up. Turned inside out and tired. Really, really tired. Here’s the deal. I went home with a reading plan in place. I knew everything I wanted to read and even the order in which I would do all this reading. I even made a big deal about lugging all that stuff home. It didn’t happen. I got to Maine and everything fell apart.
In a stream of excuses here’s what happened: I didn’t bring the right books. I didn’t bring enough to books. I chased my nephews around instead of turning pages. I scoped out the neighbor’s new porch. I gorged on blackberries and crab apples. I couldn’t make time for the library let alone the internet. I held hands with my husband. Hiked huge hills with great friends. Watched sunsets with a glass of pino between my knees. Ate savory and sweet scones from Sweet Bob. When I did pick up a book it wasn’t one on my list (Islands by Anne Rivers Siddon comes to mind).
So, here’s the deal. I just escaped paradise. I’m just back and I’m just out of sorts. I don’t want to take a shower for fear of washing away my island residue. Last night I slept with the light on because the silence on the street was not the silence of the ocean. For once, the cat wasn’t the compatible companion. I have no clue what books I am supposed to be reading for September. I have no clue and right now I don’t care.
So, September is: slogging through tons and tons of email. (Yahoo = 234, Google = 565, LibraryThing = 3, work = 199, RealEstate = 66). September is Rebecca Correia on the 12th. September is Sean Rowe’s new album. Otherwise, September is slow to start.
I am here. I would say “I am home” but I still have the salt on my skin and the wind in my hair from the boat ride. It’s too soon to say anything other than I am back. Like leaving a lover I cannot be untrue to, if that makes sense.
I left blackberries, rosehips and a mocha dream in the fridge. I left sour apples on the tree and artwork in the gallery. I left kisa on the porch staring at the ocean (left that, too). I left the sunshine for five hours in a car talking to myself.
My phone is officially turned back on. My email is once again active. I have crawled out of a coma of contentment to rejoin the workforce; the living.
643 pictures and not one rainy day. Rocks. Sea glass. purple and blue mussel shells. I’m scratched from the brambles. Bruised from who knows where. I read the wrong book but drank the right wine. Cooked for friends. Cooked with family. Laughed at my nephews. Laughed with my sister. I think I did everything I wanted and thensome. But, somehow I wasn’t done.
So much to say about being home and leaving it. This is not the real deal. Not yet at least. More later. xoxoxo
I don’t out and out ask for assistance all that often. I don’t always spell it out and say Help. Me. But, those close to me know when I am searching for support, hunting for help. In so many words I asked and in so many ways they answered. Such was last night.
For reasons unknown I have been feeling silent and still. Like a pond with hardly a ripple. I wanted a wave of life and laughter to wash over me and lift me out of a self-induced torpor. Let’s go out I told my go-to girls. Where? They were surprised when I told them. It’s not like me to not have a plan. It’s not like to me to not know what I’m getting myself into. They only knew I needed their support and they answered the call. Wish we had a rally song because I would be humming it now.
Pouring rain. Little sleep. Too much wine. A borrowed car. Running late. Leaving early. None of it mattered. We converged on Jill like a hurricane and ordered vodka, chocolate, and chilies. We rolled our eyes at the cliches and silently cheered on the gold. Smoke and strobes. Run songs ruined. When the time came my friends rallied around me like a fortress. Not letting a single thing hurt me or help me lose control. When I said I was done I didn’t know it until I was surrounded by support.
Now it’s the morning after. I’m hearing Sublime. I’m hearing something about bitches. Sublime bitches? You betcha. Thanks, ladies.
I wanted to write about spending time with my good, good friend. How we ran together (only 3.5mi but still…), rolled our eyes at family issues (pass me the bottle), caught the Closer bug together…
I wanted to write about how two great people stepped up and came out with me Friday night. I don’t ask for help very often and my requests aren’t always clear, but they answered the call despite weather and wine and one way streets.
I wanted to write about this one particular house we saw yesterday. It’s the perfect marriage of funky and functional (read = moi & kisa). Dare I say perfect?
I wanted to write my apologies for playing phone tag with two very special people. I am sorry I keep missing the ring so much it becomes rang. Don’t ever think I don’t need you.
Instead, I have cancer on the brain. When I got the call I went cold. “Make her some Natalie cds” my mother urged. “You know, the soothing stuff…” She went onto to say things like, “you won’t recognize her… administering her own chemo…needed to be on Monhegan… metal rods because her bones are so brittle… the whole family is here…” After a little while I stopped listening. All I could hear was my heart pounding & breaking. I kept thinking too young. Too fukcing young. When will this disease go after the sour grapes? When will it turn away from the angels on earth and settle a cold eye somewhere else?
I think it goes without saying that all plans have changed.
Kisa sent me a link today. Said it was my day for my kind. My Day. A day for Lefties. A day dedicated to 10% of the population…those being not right handed. Imagine that! Needless to say I automatically joined the club and then immediately questioned my qualifications. Even felt a little guilty about printing out the certificate…(but it’s a pretty certificate).
I’m not entirely all right brained. This dominate right hand world has taught me a little something about compromise. Think about it. Try using a computer mouse in your left hand. Try holding a pair of scissors upside down. It’s a little screwy. So, I adapted. Here’s more: I throw a ball equally as bad with my left as with my right. I play golf right handed. I zest lemon rind with my right. Nutmeg, too. Peel potatoes righty. Even pick my nose with the right. So, am I right to belong to a left-handed club? Hmmmm….
When I was a kid Kenny Rogers was cool. More than cool. His ‘Coward of the County’ was king. His ‘Gambler’ was even cooler than that. I didn’t know much about gambling, the card playing kind. But, I knew about taking risks. Or, as Natalie says, “taking dares with yes.” I stretched my safety to the limits, kicked at the walls of my comfort zone all the time. It’s the only way I knew how to be. If there was a line to walk I wobbled just outside of it. Teetered on the edge of trouble. I think I was so terrible because I couldn’t get attention. Not the kind I craved. The line “when to hold ’em” was always “when to hold ME” in my mind. And I lived by the options of walking or running away. Did it all the time. If it wasn’t a physical move-to-a-new-state-no-forwarding-address kind of move it was an I Need To End This Relationship Right Now kind of running away. Shutting down, kicking someone out. Let me leave you before you leave me. Allow me to hurt myself before you do it for me. Walking or running I was always leaving someone or something.
As an adult here’s what bothers me about Kenny’s song. He says “Know when to walk away, know when to run.” Well, what about staying? Wasn’t that ever an option in his world or mine? Just sitting right there, not flinching a muscle. Not twitching a lip. Doing absolutely nothing. Being braver than brave for not bolting. I don’t get it or me. Wasn’t I stronger than that? I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to that. Really.
Happiness is…taking a half day to visit the farm. Happiness is knowing everything is going to be alright, eventually. Happiness is….
I play this game all the time. Whenever I am overcome by being happy I have this habit of identifying the source of emotion. I haven’t acknowledged my feeling until I can fill in the blank. Something I picked up from therapy. A little weird, but there it is.
Today, coming back from the farm I felt giddy, euphoric even. My impulse was to think “on the verge of a psychotic snap” because I had just spent 40 minutes standing in the pouring rain, searching for tomatillos, the ones that had burst through their paper-lantern shells. I had given up on the cherry tomatoes 10 minutes earlier. We were allowed two quarts and for some reason my heart wasn’t in hunt. The recent storms have knocked down all the trailing twine and posts so picking tomatoes off the vine is literally hunching over, pulling up sodden leaves to look for orange orbs. We already have so many! So, I opted for just one quart and moved onto my goddess, the tomatillo.
I don’t think I can fully express my obsession with this green tomato-like, apple-like, hint of lime wonder. As the rain continued in sheets, soaking me to the bone, I stood there quietly, carefully surveying the harvest. Only the ones that had successfully burst through their paper shells were ready for picking and in the pouring rain it was impossible to tell. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a cobalt blue raincoat standing and staring on the other side of the row. “Are we crazy?” the man under the cobalt asked me when our eyes met. “I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for the tomatillos.” I replied as I raised a hand in greeting. My hand said “Yup, we are crazy” even as my voice made excuses. Soon he came around to my row and said “what’s a tomatillo?” I pulled one of out my bag and launched into cooking school mode. “They’re like a tart tomato, think granny smith – think Mexican food…” Meanwhile an obese drop of rain hung on the man’s nose, another in his eyelashes. A mosquito bit my neck. “Ah…” the man nodded. Why, I’m not sure. He told me the raspberries were worth the rain. I was anxious to move onto Italian flat leaf parsley but didn’t say so. Instead, I laughed and admitted the raspberries might have to wait a week. My sneakers were filled with silt. My canvas pants clung to my calves. Mud graced the cuffs. Grit was in my teeth from sneaking a cherry tomato. Dirt was under my nails and I’m sure, smudged on my face. Rain’s wet had found it’s way through my raincoat. It started to run down my back. Still I wished my picking companion a nice weekend and grinning like a fool, made my way back to the car.
Green peppers, zucchini, summer squash, onions, carrots, hot peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce, kale, cilantro, dill, honeydew, watermelon, arugula, thyme, sage, plum and cherry tomatoes…and tomatillos. Happiness is all that.
For those of you in the know, you know that’s the beginning of a line from the movie Sliding Doors, one of my all time favs. The scene cracks me up.
But, back to the platform. That’s me. Standing on the platform in Indecision City. A really nice author friend likes my book reviews. She’s said as much. Like I said, really nice. But, and it’s a big but, she’s not so wild about the ranting. She gets a little squeamish when I mention the bullsh!t. Especially when it relates to my life. TMI! “I like what you read. I like how your brain works when you read. Your heart…well, it’s more than I need to know.” Odd. I say odd because most people classify my “reviews” as dry, without substance…the stuff they mutter “yeahyeahyeahwhatever” about as they scroll to the juicier bits. Hmmm. Here’s someone on the other side. A first!
So, this got me thinking. Do I split hairs with topics and separate my blogs? In truth, I’m already doing that. I “journal” my workout sessions, running miles, eating habits and yoga (dis)graces in another blog, just around the corner from here. It gets like two hits a day, but I’m okay with that. I just needed another space to fill up with “My shoulder keeps popping during overhead presses. This is NOT normal!”
So. Do I weed out the writing about reading and put it somewhere else? Start a fourth blog? Seems kind of excessive, right? Well, not if I would be writing those things anyway…Each blog would have more relevance to one thing. Maybe the BookLust Challenge blog would end up on someone else’s “review list” or something…
Or do I embrace life as I know it? Keep running&yoga where it is. Keep books&blatherings together in an unlikely (but surviving) marriage? There is no doubt I was hurt by someone stealing my creativity and passing it off as her own. I’m not flattered. But, I’m also not deterred. I will not stop using these spaces as creative outlets. Write on I will. But, here’s the question – how?
ps~ this was supposed to be the real blog of the day!
You are an azzhole. Royal sh!tface fukc-up.
There. Got that out of my system. I feel better. Much. To my friends: sorry for that outburst. But, to the person I am swearing about:
I am sorry that you don’t have an original thought in your pee sized brain. I pity you and your need to take MY words and use them for your weak-azz porn site. Obviously you can’t string two sentences together so you have to steal other people’s intellence to pass it off as your own. Your slutty picture just adds to the offense. You say you have a blog. I say you have a sh!t filled bog. I’m just sorry my words had to end up there.
I don’t know how to say this. Well, I don’t know how to say this without coming off as a cultural snob, but there is no refinery in my life right now. I wanted to see two nights of Natalie at the symphony. I was willing to pay someone’s way just to have a second night w-i-t-h someone (and not just sharing a table and maybe a bottle of wine with a complete stranger). Call me generous but my motives were selfish. Call me selfish but I would have paid the way. The whole way. The problem was I couldn’t think of a single person who would sit through orchestral music. No offense, but I’m having a culture crisis.
I need people in my life who want to look at art from the back of the room. The kind of person who not only sits and stares at art, but collects it as well. Cherishes it rather than chucks it. Someone who doesn’t get their wall decore from A.C. Moore. I want to know people who hear a cello live and call it an experience to remember. Music that moves them beyond screaming teenage fantasies. I desire people who would rather savor their food than chew, choke and swallow it. Can close their eyes and say, “cilantro…with a hint of lime” rather than, “there’s something funky with this rice…”
Show me someone who reads poetry, watches documentaries, understands fresh basil, and can handle a song without words. Show me someone who reads biographies, goes to the theater, knows a good Alfredo sauce, and hears the protest in folk music. Show me because I’m tired of Cosmopolitan magazine, Dumb & Dumber, dried oregano, and Hannah Montana.
*Edited to add: When I voiced this angst rather than post it, a friend took me to the theater. Another friend said, “I’ll go with ya!” I guess all I had to do was ask. I don’t know if that would have worked for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, but now I know…It doesn’t hurt to ask!*
There are some people you want to write off because they never mean what they say. Wait. Actually, I’m one of those people when I say I’ll call you. I hardly ever come through with dialing the digits. I think those kinds of short comings are okay, though. Those I’ll-Get-Around-To-It people who somehow never really do. They are okay. You chalk it up to they mean well, but don’t do well. If that makes sense. Manny being Manny kind of excusability.
Yet. And, yet. It’s different when it concerns the heart. Admitting emotion. “I care” when you or you really doesn’t. “I miss you” when you haven’t thought of that you for months or even years. “I love your….” when really, you find them and their [fill in the blank] annoying. Why is that? Why is it that I find a lie of emotion harder to swallow than a lie of action?
I’m trying to make sense of this. Really, I am. I find myself beating moi or me up because I mean well but don’t say well. It translates into not caring well, not feeling well. Being ill. Not nice. Or something.
I’m reading a book about someone who is self-centered and vain. She makes excuses for her superior attitude, like she has earned it, therefore can flaunt it. Wear it not so well. This character lies with emotion about emotion. Even that drives me nuts. Why is that? Why can’t what you say be taken seriously? Not by me, myself and moi, the listening, but youyouyou, the talking?
I think I have it figured out. A lie of action is excusable because it’s tangible. It doesn’t have to be an out and out lie. Something came up. Something always does. Then it’s not a lie, it’s a meant well statement. A lie of the heart is something completely and utterly different. Exposing an emotion isn’t necessary. That’s your call. You don’t have to say it. I never need to know what you’re feeling. Exposing an emotion when it isn’t truly felt is beyond inexcusable. It’s downright mean.
So. Don’t tell me you miss me. Because I can’t take it seriously if I can’t believe it.
I’ve got the Black Crowes in my head. “Jealous. Jealous again.” Because I am. Of you. I have exactly 44 days until I can go homehome. 44 days to deal with being landlocked and loser. I always think of you when I hear the Black Crowes but this time it’s more than that. You were there. You could have bragged about it. You didn’t. Instead, you let me down easy. Talking more about the weather than what I was missing. I got weather here, too. I wanted to crawl through the phone and smell the salt in your hair. You were just there. What made me ask? Torturing myself with the wanting. How was the pizza? Where did you hike? Was it crowded? I stopped short of asking how the sea smelled, how the surf sounded on the shore, what was in bloom. Stopped short of being pitiful, but wanting all the same.
I reminded myself of someone I knew once. She would flip through fashion magazines and Victoria’s Secret catalogs and ask her boyfriend, “Do you think she’s pretty? Do you like her legs?” as she shoved the glossy near naked women in his face. “Well? Well?” What was she looking for? A lie? Could she handle the truth? What made her force the admission?
Funny thing about jealousy. It changes everything once it flares up and rages out of control. Like a fire, things get out of hand if not handled properly. People say stupid things when they are bit by the ugly green eye. Jealousy. Things become infected by jealousy. You lose things to jealousy. Things burn up in jealousy. Friends. Relationships. Things. Life as we knew it. Life period. I sort through the rubble, bits of charred emotions still smoking. Make my way through what I want to salvage, deciding what is worth keeping. Nothing. I decide nothing is worth salvaging. Let it burn I say. I’ll be home in 44 days.
Somewhere along the way I decided I wasn’t going to play the game anymore. Except, somewhere along the way I forgot to tell you. Consider this the open letter of I’m telling you now. I’m wasted enough to stop waiting.
I’m through with the games. We have been lying to each other for a while now. We play ping pong with promises. Bounce one to me and I’ll volley one back. But, really, they’re all lies. I have no intention of calling you. I have no intention of helping you out. The game is at the give up point and I’ve given all that I can. Now I’m just pretending. Now I’m just acting stupid because I can’t tell you how I really feel. Until now. I went from being your biggest fan favorite to feeling like the biggest fallout failure.
You used me to get somewhere else. That’s okay as long as you got where you needed to go. That’s only because I got something out of it, too. But now I’m done. There were too many other people involved and I can’t justify dragging them into this any longer. If there’s any dragging to be done it’ll be done by me – dragging my tail between my legs and admitting I was stupidstupidstupid.
Kisa has heard the rant. Time has heard the rant. I think everyone has heard the rant. The rant has turned me into a raving lunatic. Pass me the bottle. I want to poison myself enough to puke out everything vile, everything I thought I believed in. I need to get wasted to make you go away.
What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.
No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born
killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.